Markings
by redlettergirl
Summary: "Bruises fade, and soon, that sweet memory of him will be gone from her body. He needs something more permanent." Rated M for violence and dark material.


"Have you come to see me, Saya?"

She is beautiful. The way she pivots without thought, strikes without mercy as he flings himself upon her, he thinks he has never seen something so wonderful. He had feared, for a moment, that she had left him, returned to the fold of humanity that Solomon assured she once inhabited. Karl, however, has known all along—her battle lust and thirst for blood made her too incredible to ever fit in amongst them.

He sees the truth in those eyes now, flashing red with hatred and screaming for his death, and he laughs with childish joy: she has returned to him.

He dodges her sword by less than a hair's breadth and leaps back, giggling as he goes. "It's such a beautiful night, isn't it, Saya?" he calls, perching himself atop a nearby park bench. The street lamps cast long, inky shadows over the both of them, but he can still see her eyes, burning for him.

"Where is Diva?" she growls, spits, and words do nothing but mar that beauty. Thankfully, it seems she has come alone (that useless nothing of a chevalier left behind, somewhere) and their piece of the park is empty. There is plenty of time to tear those words away.

"I'm afraid my sweet Diva could not be here tonight," he says with a smile (and the Queen whips through his mind, holding her stomach lovingly and utterly disregarding his presence). "Why don't you dance with me?"

He is on her again and she counters, throwing her weapon into the tangle of their bodies and knocking him back—he, meanwhile, shrieks with glee. "You see it, don't you, Saya?" She runs her thumb along the bottom her sword and comes at him, bellowing with rage uncontained. "You and I are perfect for each other!"

She swings, slicing open part of his cloak. He mirrors her and connects, the bone in her shoulder straining as she flinches, groans, jumps back. The thought of the bruise it will leave—blue and black, and she will think of him when she undresses and finds it—is one of only the purest ecstasy.

But bruises fade, and soon, that sweet memory of him will be gone from her body. He needs something more permanent.

She swings as if possessed—and she is, possessed by the deepest, barest desires of a chiropteran Queen, free from that hideous humanity and naked before him. She teases him, sword just barely missing each time as her chest heaves with the effort. He does the same, brushing a finger over her cheek, hair, collarbone as he swings for her shoulder, chest, stomach.

The third connects and she gasps, groans beneath his touch. In the instant he is distracted—breath quivering, pulse throbbing through the entirety of his being at the sounds she makes for him—she is up again and slices, opens him shoulder to shoulder. He fears for a moment, stumbles back and grips the wound, but fate is with him tonight. Her swinging has pulled the blood from the sword; it needs more to be anything of use. Karl throws back his head, cackling at the sky—she can't deny it! Her sword knows what she feels, even if she does not!

He sees it there, an opening as she pulls back and hastily feeds that sword; without thought, he takes it. The useless weapon clatters to the ground as he slams into her, bodies pressed tight together (and he nearly loses himself then, eyes cast to the sky in utter bliss). It is as one being that they, climatically, poetically, crash to the brick.

There is a small moment of quiet, perfect tranquility as shock and ecstasy engulf this new, wonderful being. She shifts beneath his hips, and they press back of their own accord as he leans against her breast like a child. She is silent, burning eyes fixed on the sky, and he knows as he has always known—she is everything.

Then she screams, pain and rage shooting through her and delving straight into him, and it is very nearly too much. He digs in deeper, fists his hand in delicate flesh and muscle too thick for something so gentle, such a place of safety. He twists, and she tears at his face, his chest, his arm, desperately trying to pull the last from her belly. He holds fasts—and it is hard, so hard when she touches him that way—and twists the flesh.

He does not know the intricacies of the organ as Amshel and Solomon do, can no longer recall the pictures and diagrams that his human self had studied so carefully. However, he knows enough, and as she fights he breaks it, tears holes and realigns, and even a Queen could not heal perfectly from this. It will scar—and they will be his scars, a painting within her that she can never erase, never forget—and it will heal but it will be nothing as it was, nothing that can function.

Nothing (and he sees this body with beautiful blue eyes, stomach held with the greatest care _my precious little babies they're all I care about_ and he could never, never again—) will take her away from him. They are meant to be.

There is something sharp at the back of his skull, and no time to dodge. Then a claw, tearing him from her, and something so heavy and blunt that it carries him away. It crushes him, and for a strange moment, he thinks it a coffin. Then, Karl recognizes it through the haze and there is that useless chevalier of Saya's, holding her in the crook of his arm and gaping at her wound.

Immediately the man pulls back his collar, tries to lean his neck close; she draws away, sits up, shakes her head. He presses, and Karl watches with joy as she refuses to relent.

Then she turns, her narrowed eyes meeting Karl's, and it is all he can take. He shrieks with laughter, and they are gone, and he finally has his release.

/

Saya goes nowhere without her chevalier these days. Before, Solomon would occasionally catch her strolling through the city—the park, too, which seemed to be a favorite of hers—most likely to clear her head. He would watch her as she went, silently appreciating her beauty and grace, but never took to following her. If Haji was not with her, then this was clearly time Saya wanted alone.

Now, however, Haji is always with her, and she does not go walking anymore. Solomon, for his part, has to wonder.

Karl passes by his office, absently studying his arm—still relatively new, for all intents and purposes—watching as the deadly claw in the center moves in and out. It has plagued Solomon's mind for weeks now, suspicion and confusion, and finally, he knows he must ask. He has to know.

"Karl." The man stops, backs up to stand in the doorway, tilts his head like a child. Solomon fixes him with a stare, voice mild and playing at parental. "What did you do to Saya?"

He hopes to hear nothing. He hopes that Karl will not know of what he speaks, that he will reply with merely confusion and Solomon will be able to let him go on his way. But then the man's expression has changed—going from neutral and stoic to delighted, a sickly smile lighting his face—and he laughs, throwing his head back. Solomon starts, and it is enough time for Karl to whip back up and fix him with that horrible grin.

"I made her mine, Solomon," he says, and holds up the claw. Solomon sits back, and there is a superiority he has never seen in Karl's smirk. Suddenly, it feels as if he is the younger brother, taunted and bewildered by his elder.

Karl lowers the claw, smiles even wider, and Solomon realizes he doesn't like the feeling one bit. "I made her mine."


End file.
